In the winter of 1983 I was born. My mother was a registered nurse and my father worked in the same hospital as a computer operator. I was a normal healthy baby delivered at 3:10am on the 9th December. I was the first born and spoiled, to an extent, in those early years. I remember a photo of me as a tiny infant surrounded by a mountain of toys, animals, and wonderful baby things. I was doing one of the few things I knew how to do at that point in time, which was sleep. My parents were very adoring, but sensible.  They kept me safe, happy, and healthy as any parents should. We lived in a good sized house for the three of us. My parents knew their family was sure to grow and bought a three bedroom home on the northwest side of San Antonio, just inside the Loop 1604, not but a few miles from Sea World. When you stepped through the door you walked down a short hallway and before you the entire house stood. To your left was another hallway that led to the two bedrooms and one bathroom, while to your right was the kitchen attached to the dining room. From the dining room there was a four step stairs directly across from the front door and a railing running the length of the dining room. Down the stairs, the den was to the right and a door to the master bedroom on the left. If you continued to walk forward you would reach a sliding glass door that opened to the back porch.  The kitchen, dining room, and den were all one large space separated solely but the three foot drop with the railing and small steps. We had a brick fireplace and a huge window in the dining room that belonged to a cardinal the lived out in a tree in the backyard. I remember sitting there at the window listening to him tap on the glass. We used to call him the “crazy cardinal” because he never stopped tapping on the window.  I was always considered a happy baby with the exception of the occasional temper tantrum.  In the summer of 1985, I was one and a half years old and fully mobile. I hand not yet mastered the ways of the biped animal, but I was getting there. There were days that only one parent would be working and the other way how with me. I do not recall any sort of babysitter in the earliest years and all of my first memories involved my parents. On this particular day I was home with my father. He was in the kitchen washing dishes and I was busy being obnoxious. My father reprimanded me and in my frustration, I ran off through the dining room and down the steps into the den.  I some how managed to tumble down the steps in a rolling fashion. My legs twisted around one another so tightly that my left femur suffered a green-stick fracture. To explain, you need only to take a bag of spaghetti noodles with both hands and twist them until the hard noodles break. My father rushed to my side in a panic and scooped me up. His first instinct was to call mom. My mother calmed him down and told him to bring me to the hospital. This incident was very traumatic for my father because up until now I had never been really sick or injured. There, of course, were the typical bumps, bruises, sniffles and sneezes, but nothing significant. I have no memory of that, but my father has told me that yelling at me that day was always his greatest regret. He was just being a father and I probably would have done the same thing as a parent. I lived in a partial body cast that went from the waist down for weeks. The only thing visible my right leg from the thigh down. I could not sit or stand for the entire time in the cast. My options were lying on my back or lying on my stomach. I am glad I have no memory of it. 

My brother, Michael Dane, was born a little more than two years later in May of 1987.